“As the Eye Rolls”: My plastic surgery journey, Part 13

My Dad’s company, which was then known as Burroughs, transferred him from their office in New York City to an office in New Jersey.

We needed to move.

Granted, as I’ve noted in previous entries, school wasn’t always easy, but I had friends, such as Steven who was a year or two younger than me and lived next door (we called him “Little Steven” to avoid confusion with my brother, Steven); Sonia, who had moved from Puerto Rico and now lived several doors down from me and was in my grade at school; and Nicholas, who had moved to Long Island from England when we were in the second grade.

But, on November 16, 1976, it was my turn to move. My family left Hicksville, N.Y. for Cranford, N.J.

It’s hard enough to be the new kid in school. But, throw some craniofacial deformities in the mix, along with a teacher who wants to make you teacher’s pet, and you’re just courting disaster.

I spent a lot of time in fourth grade at Roosevelt Elementary School coming home in tears from having bits of pencil eraser thrown at me from the kid sitting opposite me, enduring name-calling and dodging the occasional threat for a fight. (I’m a lover, not a fighter).

Then, with fourth grade almost over, it was time for me to undergo yet another surgery.

And, once again, the setting was changing.

My next surgery was at Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat Hospital. My room reminded me of a room in an old-fashioned hotel. Mercifully for my parents, there was a bed in the room for them to sleep in as well, instead of the uncomfortable chair they had put up in the past. But, for me, gone were the familiar surroundings of NYU Medical Center.

There was no playroom. No game room. No Ethel, the cleaning woman. (I’d look for Ethel every time I was in the hospital for surgery, or when I was there for one of those Monday conferences). She even signed my big, stuffed autograph baseball when I was 5, signing her name in big, block letters in black magic marker. Years later, some of the names have faded. But, Ethel’s signature is almost as clear as the day she wrote it.)

In addition to a new school, and a new hospital, this was the year that my negotiations began with the anesthesiologist.

From my past experiences in the hospital, I knew that when it was time for me to go into surgery and I had to have painful injections, making a break for it wasn’t working. (Although it does make for good reminiscing around the dinner table years later).

So, I decided I needed to have a little chat with the anesthesiologist myself.

When he arrived at my room to check me out before the surgery, I implored him to spare me the needles in the legs. I would give him no problems, I promised. He decided to give me another form of medicine (I’ll spare you the details and the visual), which was not painful. Still awake when the stretcher came for me to take me to surgery, I remember being wheeled into the operating room.

Bright lights. Warm blankets. Doctors and nurses in scrubs.

I’m not sure if an IV went into my arm before or after I was under, but if it did, it was relatively painless. The anesthesiologist gave me the gas to put me to sleep. I loved the strange feeling as I started to slip under.

Next thing I knew, I was out.

The surgeries at Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat Hospital were mostly on the lids of my “bad eye,” my left eye, trying to tighten up the corner of it. Mom and Dad would still take turns staying with me, and trying to keep me amused when I wasn’t sleeping or couldn’t find anything to watch on television.

My parents brought me a folder made out of blue construction paper. Inside were letters from my fourth-grade class. Wishing me a speedy recovery, most of the letters recounted a landmark kickball game—a sort of battle of the sexes–they had recently had.

Depending on the gender of the letter writer, the notes either were filled with pride or disbelief.

About Brad Wadlow

Brad Wadlow tries to find the humor in most any situation. "I can be serious," Brad says, "but it's usually when the house is on fire, or my tie is caught in the blender (again)." He is currently a news assistant for MyCentralJersey.com.

Wow. Excellent blog. I read the first entry and then got waylayed (Is that a word?). I just got a chance to read the next 10 posts in one sitting – a nice treat. Your stories are funny but so poignant. How true that we all have “abnormalities”, it is just that some show more than others. I myself try to keep mine in hiding.

Excellent stories. Brad, I love how you tie in so many details, including time references. While you were enduring the second brain surgery I was blissfully blasting Elton John’s “Bennie & the Jets” on my car radio, while driving around on my driver’s permit. Also, it was funny to read the dawning of the realization that teachers – shocking to me as well – had first names!

Thank you, Katie! Glad you are enjoying them. It’s weird, because my memories from the first two operations are much more vivid than most of the others. The rest kind of jumble in together. Keep on reading and posting!

About this Blog

Staff Writer Brad Wadlow teeters on the edge of insanity that is everyday life. Some insist he's already gone over that edge.

About the Author

Brad WadlowBrad Wadlow tries to find the humor in most any situation. "I can be serious," Brad says, "but it's usually when the house is on fire, or my tie is caught in the blender (again)." He is currently a news assistant for MyCentralJersey.com.E-mail Brad